


Pull me out of the train wreck

by Elisexyz



Series: Whumptober 2020 (TMFU) [7]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (emotionally at least), Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Illya, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Illya shouldn’t be the one upset right now.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Whumptober 2020 (TMFU) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964011
Comments: 18
Kudos: 127





	Pull me out of the train wreck

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant for Whumptober, specifically for the prompts "Psych 101" and "Crying". Obviously, it's not October anymore, it's not even _November_ , but I'm adding it to the series anyway. I have a few other prompt fills that I might finish and add, poor little fics, I don't want to leave them without their rightful home XD The title is from "Train wreck" by James Arthur.  
>  Also, I've been doing so BADLY when it comes to productivity especially that it's not even funny anymore, I really hope this is decent ^^" Enjoy!

The soft thump of his head against the wall seems awfully far away, his mind floating for a small eternity as he waits for the world to start spinning again, for his ears to pick up on something that isn’t _ringing_. He presses his back harder against the wall, distantly thinking that he doesn’t _feel_ it enough and his chest is still too tight, his head too light.

“Peril?” is the first thing that cuts through the ringing, distant and incomprehensible for a few moments, but there nonetheless. “Are you back with me?”

Solo is crutching in front of him, tries to lay a tentative hand on his knee, and it weights enough that he wants to recoil, but the annoyance washes through him in a second, rushing somewhere he can’t reach it. He’s still drifting. He needs to breathe.

His eyes begin wandering, and he manages to put in focus the room, or whatever is left of it, a mess of trashed furniture and objects hurled around—it hits him like a ton of bricks that this is _their apartment_. Those are _their_ things. He just—destroyed everything.

Shame raises from his stomach, squeezing his lungs and clogging his throat, and he automatically balls his hands into fists, pressing them hard against his thighs as if merely getting the tremors under control could stop him.

He manages to take a few breaths, trying not to think of the tightness in his chest and the tingling in hands and—

“—Illya? Hey? Are you there?”

Solo still sounds _odd_ , but he hears him, and he _somehow_ manages to put something in motion, to turn in his direction, his vision tunnelling around him until—there. There’s Solo staring at him, with that familiar frown on his face. It might be worry, but it might also be fear, it would be—understandable, he supposes. None of this was a secret, it isn’t even the first outburst that he’s ever witnessed, but something about it hits different, at home. It wasn’t supposed to _happen_ here.

It takes a few extra seconds for Illya’s brain to register that _blood_ is definitely _not_ something that would belong on Solo’s face on a normal day.

Something in him snaps, the whole world clicking back in place, sound rushing back to his ears as he registers the faint ache in the back of his head and the sharp pain of something sticking in the middle of his back, all immediately discarded because there’s _blood_ on the left side of Solo’s face, coming from a cut on his temple all the way down his cheek.

Illya’s first reaction is, stupidly, anger, beginning to rise in his chest like he thinks he’s found something to kill.

Then, of course, he realizes, and guilt drowns everything else.

“Did I…?” he gets out, his voice hoarse and his mouth dry. He begins to raise his hand, instinctively wanting to offer a helpful or comforting touch, but he finds it still trembling and he thinks he is in no position to _help_ , so he drops it.

Solo lets out a sigh, a small smile flashing on his face before he seems to register what he just asked. “Oh, this?” he says, with a nonchalant gesture to his face. He waves him off. “Entirely my fault, I, uh, I was diving for this.” He holds up—Illya’s chessboard?

He blinks at him, unsure if it’s Solo who is being ridiculous or if he is the one being slow. “Why?” Illya eventually asks, failing to see what exactly his chessboard has to do with him getting injured – with _Illya_ injuring him, he can’t recall if it was by throwing something at him or by shoving him against some piece of furniture, it all happened too fast and he isn’t sure he wants to revisit it –, or what it has to do with _anything_ that just happened, for that matter.

Solo shrugs. “It was directly onto your path,” he says, easily. “I figured you’d get upset if something happened to it, so—you know, I figured I’d better grab it and keep it safe, you love this damn thing more than literally anything or any _one_ else in the world—”

This time, he doesn’t think his chest is so tight out of anger. He thinks Solo is being an idiot, a _ridiculous_ idiot who looked at a crazy man destroying their apartment and thought to throw himself in the eye of the storm because he didn’t want him to be _upset_ at the loss of his _chessboard_. Illya shouldn’t even be the one upset right now.

He isn’t sure if he is more stunned or touched, but it’s definitely too _much_ , and his vision quickly blurs before he can do anything to stop it. When he blinks and he can see Solo again, he looks horrified.

“Oh, shi—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was joking, I promise, I didn’t mean—please, don’t cry—”

Illya shakes his head, feeling the beginning of a laugh rumbling in his throat, and apparently that gesture alone is enough to cut Solo’s rambling off. He reaches out, because he _wants_ him there and there’s something in his head still not registering that Solo hasn’t run away yet, it might still happen, and he needs him to stay so _badly_ —Solo comes willingly, quick to scoot closer and wrap his arms around him when Illya presses his forehead against his shoulder.

Exhaustion sets heavily on his shoulders, his breaths coming a little more ragged and his eyes burning no matter how tightly he closes them, and he realizes with belated horror that he’s _sniffling_ in Solo’s shirt.

This is so stupid, and he _really_ shouldn’t be the one upset right now, he is the one who _created_ this mess in the first place— “I’m sorry,” he pushes out, against every instinct to just sink into silence and hope to disappear, because he should say it and Solo deserves to hear it.

“It’s alright,” comes the immediate reply. There are fingers trailing through his hair and a heavy hand running up and down his back. It’s grounding. “We can clean it up.”

Illya hums noncommittally, thinking that that _we_ should be just him and finding it a little too relieving that it isn’t, in spite of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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